Page 16
Story: Don’t You Forget About Me
M arjorie didn’t know if it was a product of her amnesia or actual déjà vu, but the sense of familiarity struck her hard as she looked at the man who had now threatened her for the second time in a week.
“Hand it over,” he said, gesturing with his pistol.
Over my dead body . No doubt he really would have killed her this time, but she had Simon with her, and that gave them an advantage.
Bits and bobs of memory were trickling back to her now.
Thank God the rush had tapered to a drip, and her aching head no longer felt as though it was being torn asunder.
She didn’t need much of her memory right now, though.
Dealing with this turncoat would require instinct and training more than anything else.
She cut her gaze at Simon, who was still holding the lamp outstretched.
His hand was steady, and he was looking at her.
She gave him the slightest nod, and he lowered his eyes to acknowledge he understood.
But, of course, he’d understood. He could handle this. He was one of the best.
“How did you find us?” Simon asked the traitor.
“Just hand me that bottle,” he said.
“We kept the lamp dark all the way down.”
That’s right, Simon, talk to him while I form a plan . She hadn’t pulled the map all the way out of the bottle and now she let it slip back inside. Could she hit the conspirator with the bottle? Probably not without being shot first.
“I didn’t need a lamp to see you. I’ve been sitting down here every night. Once I saw she was still alive, I knew she’d come back. Have to admit, I thought I was done for when you saw me earlier, but then I started thinking maybe you didn’t get a good look the first time.”
“I’m getting a good look now,” she said.
“Won’t matter. Give me the bottle with the map.”
“Why should we give you the map when you’ll just kill us anyway?”
“I’ll shoot you in the head if you give me the bottle and shoot you in the belly if you don’t. I don’t have to tell you how long it takes to die of a belly wound. You’d probably drown first.”
“You can have the map and the bottle,” Marjorie said, adding a touch of fear in her voice. “Just don’t kill us. Take it and go. Please.” She wasn’t certain if he believed her act, but he lowered his pistol slightly.
“Hand it over,” he said.
Marjorie looked at Simon again, pretending to be afraid.
But she held his gaze a second longer than necessary.
Now was the moment. She moved forward slowly, crouched, and placed the bottle with the map on the damp sand between them.
She’d made sure to place it far enough away from the traitor, so he’d have to reach for it.
As soon as she backed away, the turncoat bent to retrieve it with his free hand.
He kept his gaze on them, dropping it only at the last minute to locate the bottle.
Simon kicked out, knocking the pistol from the traitor’s hand so it clattered on a rock behind him and bounced silently on the sand.
The conspirator jerked up in surprise, and Marjorie landed a kick in his abdomen, sending him sprawling. “Simon!”
But he’d already put his boot on the traitor’s throat. “I have him.”
Marjorie snatched the bottle with the map back and jerked the turncoat onto his stomach. Simon pinned his hands behind him and pushed him to his feet.
“We make a good team,” she said.
“I’ve always thought so.”
Marjorie cocked her head. “Have we done this before?”
“I thought your memory was coming back.”
“In pieces. Not completely.” She gestured to the traitor, struggling futilely to free himself from Simon’s grip. “What should we do with him?”
“Tie him up and gag him back at the cottage. There’s no time to bring in a magistrate before the tide comes in. Besides, Melbourne will want him questioned, see who he’s working for.”
“We need something to tie him.” She lifted the hem of his greatcoat.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said.
“I was moving it aside to rip my petticoat. I know how you feel about your coats, Burrows.” She winced.
“I heard how I barked your name that time. I’ll work on it.
” She tore a long strip off her petticoat and used it to bind the traitor’s hands tightly.
Then she stuck her handkerchief in his mouth and bound that too.
By the time they returned to the cottage, the smugglers were due to arrive any moment.
The turncoat had made the return trek to the house as difficult as possible.
Simon secured him in his bedchamber and closed the door just as a knock sounded at the front door.
Marjorie had smoothed the map on the table, and when Simon let the smugglers in, she gestured to them to gather around.
“This is your rendezvous point, captains.” She gestured to the X on the map, a cove a few miles from one of the Portuguese ports.
“The English troops have orders to wait for your arrival for two days. I know we are shaving it close.”
"Very close,” the tall captain muttered.
“Can you manage it?” Simon asked. “If we need to call it off, now is the time.”
“I can manage it,” said the shorter captain with the higher voice.
“Oi, I’ll get there faster than either of ye,” said the third captain.
“Where’s the other man?” the tall captain asked.
“He won’t be traveling on this mission,” Marjorie said. The other captains exchanged looks. Marjorie narrowed her eyes. “You had your doubts about him?”
“Not seen ‘im before. ‘Adn’t ‘eard of ‘is ship.”
“You might have mentioned that at some point,” Simon drawled.
“Yer supposed to be the spy.”
“Good luck to you,” Simon said, leaving it and shaking each of their hands. “Your King and country are counting on you.”
The captains tipped their hats and were gone. Marjorie went to the fire and tossed the map into it, watching it burn. “I hope they make it,” she said.
He came to stand beside her. “So do I.” He let out a sigh. “I suppose I’d better go make arrangements for our return to London. Can’t say I’ll enjoy having to travel with our prisoner.” He gestured to the closed door of the bedchamber.
Marjorie reached out and stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Simon, I—”
He shook his head. “We can discuss it when we’ve seen this through. I’d rather things not be awkward between us these next few days.”
“Why would—”
“Please,” he said. “Do me this one courtesy.”
She nodded, and he gathered up his greatcoat and departed for the village.
He’d be back in an hour or so with the coach, outriders, and horses.
She could best use that time to change and pack.
But as soon as she stepped into her bedchamber, she inhaled his scent and closed her eyes.
She could all but feel his hands on her, his lips caressing hers, the warmth of his body.
Somehow she had to give that up and go back to what their lives had been like before.
She couldn’t yet remember everything about her life in London.
A few things, like Tabby’s purr and the rooms in her flat, had come back to her.
But she couldn’t remember her friends or walking in Hyde Park or visiting the British Museum.
Her strongest memory was of a small, dark office.
The room was only large enough for a desk, a chair, and a bookshelf.
No window brought in natural light, and yet, from what she remembered, she spent all her time there.
Stacks of papers were piled high, and she sat, hour after hour, her candle burning down, as she read and studied the missives.
She was the best. But she was not happy.
Simon had been happy. He had an office in Westminster as well, just down the corridor from hers.
She often heard him pass by her door, laughing and speaking with the other agents.
Sometimes she heard them inviting each other to dinner or discussing the tavern they’d gone to the night before.
She wasn’t included. She was a woman and couldn’t be included.
She told herself she didn’t care, but she did care.
She resented being left out.
And she resented Simon Burrows.
She’d never thought about why she should resent Simon more than, say, Roger McCreary or Tom Score or George Mallory.
She’d worked with all those agents as much as, if not more often, than Simon.
They were all good agents, but none made her feel hot and prickly when they walked into a room.
None of the others made her belly tighten or her breath catch in her throat.
None of the others were heart-stoppingly handsome like Simon or remotely as clever.
She didn’t even think she was as clever as Simon in some aspects of the job.
At first, she’d been able to push her feelings for him into a compartment and ignore them. He was younger than her, a junior agent, and she wasn’t often asked to train agents. But once he had been trained, she’d had to work with him, and every time she did, she liked him more and more.
Over time, she began to realize he liked her too.
He’d recently said that surely she hadn’t been oblivious to his feelings for her.
She wouldn’t have been an agent worth her mettle if she hadn’t realized he felt more than professional courtesy for her.
The heat in his eyes at times could be scorching.
But she hadn’t dared acknowledge her own feelings for him. And, in trying to hide them, she’d gone too far in the opposite direction and treated him with coldness and often outright hostility.
Was she a child of ten? That was how she’d been acting. Yes, there was the real fear that she’d be less respected at the Foreign Office if she began an affair with another agent. But by the time Simon had been there a year or so, her reputation was solid. That fear was just an excuse.
No. The real fear was of being vulnerable with him—with anyone. She’d always liked being a spy because the job allowed her to hide from everyone, including herself.